


ultraviolet

by lunaaltare



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Frat Parties, M/M, One Night Stands, PWP, Skinny!Steve, This Fic is My Iggy Azelea, face fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 18:26:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9505292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunaaltare/pseuds/lunaaltare
Summary: With one last hopeless glance, he searches for Sam in the crowd, but he can no longer see the boy dancing, body covered in sweat and glitter like a fucking dream.





	

**Author's Note:**

> me @ me: write something profound  
> also me @ me: write sam giving head in a bathroom

**[ u l t r a v i o l e t ]**

Steve has no business being here; this really isn’t his scene.

It’s ass o’ clock in the morning, a witching hour, yet the party is going strong as if time and decorum is a faraway concept. The air is thick with sweat, perfume, and alcohol. His skin is clammy, mouth dry. He really wishes he brought his goddamn glasses ‘cause he can’t see _shit_ and Bucky is one elusive motherfucker.

Lights penetrate the haze of smoke in colorful strobes. Bass rocks the house in solid, pounding booms—even his beer is vibrating with the intensity of the music. Steve licks his lips, poking his head around the staircase to check if the handsy couple happened to be Bucky and his new beaux. It’s not. There’s a stupid amount of people flooding the fraternity house, which, by the way, is hardly big enough to hold a party like this. A violation that would be paid for dearly the next day, but fuck if anyone here cares right now.

Likely nobody gives a shit—it’s probably his anxiety rearing its ugly head again—yet he feels like a pariah in the throngs of sweaty, dancing bodies. He’s just wandering aimlessly around the house with a pinched expression on his face. His shirt is partially tucked into his pants on impulse, and he’s gotta’ be one of the scrawniest, nerdiest looking white kids attending. And that’s a real feat, considering a good portion of this school’s demographic is other scrawny, nerdy looking white kids.

Great.

He gets stepped on and bumped around on his journey to the “dance floor”, which is just the living room cleared of any furniture with a ridiculous amassment of speakers stacked against a wall. Somehow, it’s even busier here. Limbs thrash every which way, a chorus of slurred lyrics from the partygoers making his ears ring. Somebody spills their cocktail right on him. The asshole mumbles something incomprehensible at him, grins dopily, then gets back fist pumping two beats off.

For the love of God, if Bucky doesn’t miraculously appear in the next five minutes, Steve’s moving his shit out of their dorm and into the streets. After all, _he’s_ the reason why Steve’s even in this situation.

_“Stevie, man, I need a plus one!”_

_“Stevie,_ please, _I can’t go in stag like some asshole!”_

_“Stevie, I’m totally gonna’ ditch you with a bunch of strangers while I go bang my new boyfriend in a closet somewhere!”_

Dickhead.

He’s moments from trashing his drink and licking his wounds in the comfort of his room when, suddenly, the song changes. It’s something fast paced and sultry with a smooth, strong bassline. A breathy vocalist purrs through the speakers, her voice enticing and surreal like a siren’s call. It’s popular, obviously, seeing how the crowd revitalizes, chanting and gyrating with newfound verve. They hoot and holler, soon huddling around in a circle. Curiosity trumps irritation—and apparently common sense, too—so instead of making a beeline for the exit, Steve burrows his way deeper into the cluster until his head pops out in the center and—

And oh, _wow_. Christ almighty.

_Pretty_ is the first word that comes to mind—which is odd, considering how rarely he uses it to define another man. However, he can’t imagine _handsome, dashing_ or anything of that like doing him any justice. There are maybe three or four other people swaying along with him, but he’s inarguably the limelight. He commands his space with unassuming grace, making even the filthiest moves look like fucking _art_. Something he wants to study with his eyes and fingers (and mouth) and attempt to eternalize on a canvas.

There’s an elusive, erotic touch to his movements that has Steve’s brain on the fritz. It’s in the graceful control of his hips. The sweaty stretch of muscles whenever his crop top rises and that bellybutton piercing Steve wants to roll between his tongue reveals itself. Or maybe it’s the glitter brushed across his skin and dusted in his curly hair. God, he shines and he shines _bright_ —like the sun during the day, whiting out every other star in the sky.

Horrifyingly, the redhead dancing beside him leans over and whispers into the man’s ear, a roguish grin on her face. Next thing Steve knows, those shining dark eyes are trained on _him._

Shit, _fuck_.

Immediately, warning bells go off in his head. Yeah, of fucking course, _now_ is the time to get noticed—when he’s got somebody’s drink drying down the front of his shirt and he looks like a disheveled white twink from every porno _ever_. And he’s a little bit buzzed. And one of his collars is popped. And he’s embarrassingly hard from some mild voyeurism.

Somehow, this is all Bucky’s fault.

Before anything else could go horribly wrong—like the building collapsing under the weight of his mortification, for example—he legs it. He elbows and shoves people out of his way, dumping his drink in the trash. Once the cool, outside air hits his skin, he feels like he can finally _breathe_. Like he can finally give his overheated body the respite it needs.

Outdoors, although still spilling with straggling attendees, is calm, almost soft in its atmosphere. There’s nothing but couples and fledgling romances here; everyone tucked away in their own little world. There’s a thankful absence of light in the yard, so most of the profaner occurrences of parties like these are hidden from sight. The sky is dark and sprawling with twinkling dots while the moon secretes behind fleecy clouds. A gust of wind kisses his cheeks as he finds his niche in hush and gloom. Steve runs a hand through his sweaty hair and leans against the side of the building, pulling his phone out and typing furiously.

**STEVE R.:** im going to send u back to russia in a box

Five minutes pass and he doesn’t get a reply. He’d be concerned if he wasn’t sure Bucky could snap someone’s neck with an arm tied behind his back, the beefy little shit.

“Somebody’s is trouble, I’m guessing.” says a coy voice, _right into his fucking ear_. Steve startles so hard his phone flies out of his hands and somersaults into the dirt. He chokes back a yelp.

He’s about to give this guy a piece of his mind— ‘cause who sneaks up on a grown man in the dark outside of a _frat_ party, is what he wants to know—but melodious peals of laughter curbs his temper like water over a fire. It’s not until his discarded phone lights up in the hands of the stranger as he gives it back that he realizes who this is. Even in the scarce light, that glitter illuminates his skin like specks of gold and silver.

Steve just kind of… _stands_ there with his mouth open for a stupid amount of time before he returns to his senses and closes it. The universe gave him another chance not to make an ass of himself and he is gonna’ _take_ it.

“Steve Rogers,” he greets, his voice a little broken, and sticks out his hand. Then he immediately regrets it. God, how old is, forty? Do twenty-somethings even shake each other’s hands? Is that a real thing that happens in real life? Luckily, the other man saves Steve from an existential crisis and shakes his hand firmly.

“Sam,”

“Sam?” he repeats dumbly. He must be drunker than he thought.

“Yeah. Sam. Short for Samuel, y’know?”

“Samuel, yeah, I know—I just, I,” he snaps his mouth shut on his tongue. It begins to throb. Rather than looking utterly unimpressed with his word garbage, Sam looks _endeared_ , if he dares say so. Amused at the very least, which isn’t too bad considering his streak with men. He enters the passcode on his phone to brighten the small space they’ve made for themselves.

Artists have a certain way of deconstructing life and piecing it back together like a mosaic in their minds. So, when he looks at Sam—properly, instead of ten feet away—he can finally explore him like he’s been itching to. There’s a softness to his appearance he didn’t account for when he first chanced him. Like the gentle slope of his lips and prominent cheekbones straight from Greek statues. His long, dark eyelashes shine with glitter. A single sparkle glistens on his cheek. Steve yearns to brush it away with the back of his hand. Sam probably works out, runs maybe, if his supple thighs and biceps are anything to go by. Steve hasn’t seen a gym, let alone a track, in years.

“That song that was playing, you uh—you know it?” he offers lamely. Sam shrugs.

“I honestly don’t, sorry. I hear it on the radio all the time, but I never really pay attention. You into that kind of music?”

He isn’t, but with that memory seared into his brain forever, he might as well start. Anyway, he’s been meaning to broaden his selection beyond whatever grungy, emo bullshit Bucky plays whenever Steve lets him Bluetooth his car.

The conversation barely progresses from there, hardly satiating Steve’s crave to learn more about Sam. At least now, Steve knows that Sam’s big on Motown and classic jazz, something he picked up from his mom, who lived in Detroit when it peaked. He’s also a diehard fan of Marvin Gaye and has a framed, collector’s edition poster of the Supremes hanging above his bed. All information he’s grateful for, but he’s greedy for more.

“So, what’re you doing here? This doesn’t really seem like your gig.” Sam finally asks. They’ve shifted closer over the past fifteen minutes, arms pressed against each other. It’s for warmth, he tells himself.

“It’s that obvious?”

“Kinda. I mean you get all sorts of people at these things, but you look bored out of your mind, buddy.”

Steve laughs and scratches his neck. “Yeah, well that’s what happens when your shitty roommate drags you out of bed half-asleep ‘cause he doesn’t want to be alone while he’s chasing tail. And then ditches you the moment you go take a piss.”

“Sounds like a real asshole,” Sam says with a smirk.

“Oh, he’s the _worst_. Now just imagine having to deal with that, but more annoying and hungover at nine in the morning.” this gets another charming laugh from Sam; his insides are pleasantly warm, and not from the liquor. “What about you? What’re you doing here?”

“I just like talking to people.” Sam shrugs. Then he pauses thoughtfully. “Fuck, that sounded shallow. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I like socializing? I don’t know. Meeting new people is always an experience for me; it’s fun to see how many kinds of folk you can run into in places like this. I mean, of course, you’re gonna’ get your occasional shithead, but for the most part, you get to know some pretty great guys and get a decent drink while you’re at it.”

Steve soaks up Sam’s words like a sponge, nodding a little harder than what’s likely acceptable. Sam bumps shoulders with Steve.

“Hey, you wanna’ head back inside?”

Steve had every intention of leaving, but how could he deny this offer while Sam is staring at him like _that_? Steve wets his lips and follows him.

**[x]**

When Sam proposed returning to that hot, stuffy party, _this_ is not at all what he had in mind. The moment they get past the foyer, Sam glances back, holds his hand and grins.

“Buddy system,” he offers as an excuse, barely audible over the music. Sam could’ve said it was to cure cancer and Steve wouldn’t have given a shit, so long as Sam’s warm fingers stayed laced with his. When they venture back to the dance floor, Sam’s greeted with an animated reception. People just naturally seem to gravitate towards him, so it’s mere seconds before they’re swallowed up by the crowd.

Steve shrinks on himself, trying to shake Sam’s hold and return to the outskirts where it’s safe, the status quo. ‘Cause it’s one thing to _think_ everyone’s staring at you and then another to _know_ they are. People press into him on every side with their giddy smiles and wide, watchful eyes. Someone’s flashlight strikes Steve directly in the eye, and now he’s standing stationary in the swarm of moving bodies, blinking owlishly. He’s choking under the attention; his brain degenerates into useless static.

“You okay, man?” Sam asks, ridiculously close. His voice is the only thing he can process, somehow mild despite yelling over the music. Steve just makes a disgruntled mash of noise, since apparently, he’s a goddamn Neanderthal now. “We can leave if you wanna’; you don’t have to stay here if you’re not.”

Even in his freaked state, he knows that’s not an option. Sam already goes out of his way to Steve, asking for the same thing twice is pushing it. Steve swallows, steadies his breathing and takes the bull by the horns. Timidly, he rests his hands on Sam’s waist, fingers sliding beneath his crop top and catching glitter on his palms.

“No, I-I’m—I’m okay,” he glances up at Sam, heart pounding so hard in his chest, he’s surprised no one else can hear it. “Just dance with me, yeah?”  

He’s half expecting Sam to let him down gently when that gap-toothed sunshine smile, no less subdued by his mini-panic attack, makes a reappearance.

“Yeah.”

And that’s how Steve finds himself swept up and away, riding cloud nine with objectively the prettiest man at the party—or better yet, on _campus_ —grinding his ass directly on his groin. It’s a vast improvement from what he originally imagined going down (which was just him continuing to gawk like a numbskull, except for in a darker, more obscure corner). He has no clue what song is playing, or if there’s even a song playing at _all_ , seeing everything that’s not the man before him is white noise; a useless distraction.

He’s a bit more than dazed, staring at Sam’s sweaty, toned back with a single-minded focus. Steve is flush against Sam, mouth parted and eyes half-lidded. He traces dark, smooth skin with his hands, praying to whichever god willing to listen that he doesn’t tell Steve to stop—at least not anytime soon.

It’s then Steve learns that Sam has back dimples. It’s pretty fucking cute.

Underneath the colorful strobes, the glitter’s alight like a rainbow. Which is fitting, considering they’re the gayest thing on and popping at one o’ clock in the morning—aside from Sam’s redheaded friend and some blonde girl groping each other by the drink table. And yeah, this is kinda’ nice. And yeah, if Sam keeps this up, he’s gonna’ bust in his pants. And yeah, Sam probably knows this if that playful grin and impish, over-the-shoulder wink is an indicator.

Suddenly, Sam spins around so they’re face-to-face, arms draped over Steve’s narrow shoulders. He’s still rocking to the song. Steve can barely keep the rhythm, let alone _breathe_ in this moment. Sam leans in enticingly close for the third time that day, then whispers, “Wanna’ go someplace quiet?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer before slipping away. It takes Steve a second to follow him, his pants uncomfortably tight as he walks. People obstruct his vision, yet he manages to catch a scant glimpse of the other man as he ascends the stairs and vanishes around the wall. Steve clutches the rail as he races up after him.

Upstairs is no quieter, obviously, but it’s cooler, darker and the number of partygoers cut from around a hundred-fifty to ten. He licks his lips, scanning the dim hallway for that enticing lithe figure. Instead, he spots the bathroom door closing from his peripheral. He quickly twists the knob and rushes inside, hoping it’s Sam rather than some random guy trying to take a shit in peace.

The first thing he realizes is that the bathroom lights are off. The next thing he realizes is that he’s crowded against the door, another mouth on his in a feverish tangle of lips and teeth. A warm hand grasps the scruff of his neck; nails rake across his nape. Hot pleasure shoots down his spine and his cock twitches in rapt interest.

Sam’s mouth tastes like whiskey and candy, an addicting concoction. Steve chases the sweetness with his tongue.

Never one to back down from a challenge, Steve gives as good as he gets it. He finds Sam’s waist and lures him closer. They’re front-to-front, chest-to-chest with little yielding space between them. His lips are insistent against Sam’s, no longer pliant now the shock wore off. He’s bossy. Rough and demanding as he licks into Sam’s mouth and nips at his plush bottom lip. He bites it until its raw and stinging, only satisfied when he feels it swell under his tongue. His fingers dig bruising-hard into his hip bones—Steve fleetingly fears it’s _too much_ , but all he elicits from Sam is a strangled, gasping “ _fuck_.”

He tightens his grip, adding the blunt edge of his nails. He hopes— _prays_ —Sam feels it in the morning. He needs him to.

Steve pulls away, feverish, breathless and mind full of cotton. It’s hot between them; airless. Their space is charged with urgency and hunger, cocks brushing against each other past layers of jeans and boxers. Steve can’t keep his hands away from Sam’s ass. He grabs and squeezes as much as he can fit in his palms. He’s wanted to do this since Sam towed him onto that dance floor because it _really_ is a thing of beauty.

“Sam?” he murmurs for the sake of having that name roll off his tongue. Emboldened, he traces Sam’s bruised lips with a finger. He squeezes his eyes shut when Sam briefly draws the digit into his mouth. Steve wishes he could see him like this.

“Steve Rogers,” he hums back with a kittenish lilt. He reaches between them and rests a hand on Steve’s thigh, a dreadful inch from his erection. Sam noses at the strong line of Steve’s neck, a puff of laughter cooling his skin. Christ, Sam’s such a fucking _tease_ , but he doesn’t want anyone else than the boy covered in glitter with the Supremes poster on his wall.

Steve releases a pitiful, broken exhale when Sam drags his tongue across the sweat along his collarbone. He sucks at the skin over his pulse point, both visibly dissatisfied until they’ve marked each other up to hell and back.

That’s more than fine by him.

Sam sinks to his knees in one fluid motion. He unbuttons Steve’s jeans, tugs the zipper down, and embarrassingly untucks the vestiges of his shirt from his pants. If he wasn’t so aroused, he’d drop dead from humiliation.

Well, only if Sam doesn’t kill him first, the way he’s peppering butterfly kisses along the print of his cock. Sam taunts him with feather-light caresses, never quite giving Steve what he wants. His sightlessness only heightens his other senses, his feverish body attuned to every minute motion in the shadows. The suspense sets him on edge. Steve doesn’t have a clue what Sam will do next—if he’ll keep pressing those soft lips against his cotton-clad erection or give another fleeting, evanescent stroke. Sweat gathers at his hairline. He tilts his head back until it thumps against the door, a merciful prayer on his lips.

“Sam, _Sam_ ,” he begs unintelligibly, nails pinching his skin as he made fists at his sides. “Sam, c’mon, _please_.”

“Please what? I’m not a magician, I don’t read minds, Rogers.” Sam’s hand curls around his dick, but stays dreadfully still. His lip catches between his teeth.

“You’re killing me,”

Sam kisses his hip. He can probably feel the tension in Steve’s body.

“You just gotta’ relax, is all.”

“I’m _trying_!”

“ _Are_ you? Couldn’t tell.”

“For the love of fuck Sam, if you don’t get your mouth on me now I’m gonna—I’m _gonna’_ …”

“Die?”

“Worse than that.”

“What’s worse than dying?”

“ _Does it matter?!_ ”

“I dunno’, man. I only blow dudes with a Shakespearian way with words. We’re at an art school—I’ve got standards.”

“Are you kiddi— _hah-ah, fuck!_ ”

Sam, all too soon, pulls off.

“You’re giving me Dr. Seuss at best.”

Steve is literally seconds away from reciting the entirety of _Hamlet_ when Sam suddenly laves at Steve’s drooling head. He has one hand wrapped around the base, the other easing Steve’s boxers further down his legs and exposing the rest of him. Chill air clashes against heated, sticky skin; he sucks in a sharp breath.

Sam’s mouth is wet and hot on his cock—the sweetest embrace. It’s painfully incessant as Sam delivers quick kitten licks against his slit. Traces the thick vein on the underside with a slow drag of his tongue, then returns to suckling at the tip—never taking him past the plush, ring of his lips. And Sam, ever the tease, is goddamn _slow_. Punishingly, so. Whenever Steve thinks he found a steady rhythm, Sam goes even _slower_ , presses _harder_ and it’s driving him _insane_.

Sam withdraws, but quickly uses his hand to replace the velvet-suction of his mouth and jacks him, getting his length fully slick with pre-cum and saliva. Steve’s eyes roll to the back of his head, his knees buckling, lips parted in a soundless whimper.

After a minute, Sam takes him as far back as he can, which frankly, is all the fucking way. There’s a passing lull when the darkness is only filled with needy gulps of air as he acclimates to the stretch. However, it’s not long before he’s drawing away and swallowing him down with vigor. He steadies Steve with a strong hand on hip, making it clear who’s in charge.

His mind cycles through an assortment of repugnant images to stave off coming. Like dead puppies. And that hairy mole growing on his professor’s upper lip. Oh, and Bucky’s pile of petrified laundry that’s likely become sentient as of last week. They marginally help.

Sam sets a punishing pace, bobbing his head and sucking him down in tandem. His tongue massages the underside of Steve’s cock. A free hand kneads his scrotum in his palm. It’s all can think of when the only thing going on in his head is elevator music and void-noise. Heat gathers at the base of his groin. An acute strain of pleasure-pain stems from the soles of his feet and zips up the backs of his legs.

God, he’s gonna’ cum. _Hard_. He’s right at the precipice—right fucking _there_ —

“My jaw hurts,”

—and immediately his orgasm recedes out of reach. A jumble of incomprehensible words tumbles from his lips. Steve hopes Sam understands what it means, ‘cause he sure as hell doesn’t. His eyes flutter open, chest heaving and drenched in sweat as if he took a dip in a lake. He isn’t gonna’ goad Sam to keep going like some _asshole_ , so Steve scrubs a hand over his face, bend downs and then fumbles finding his pants around his ankles.

“N-no problem, really. I, uh— _thanks_ —“

Sam shoves him against the door, effectively shutting him up.

“I didn’t say we were done yet.”

Sam guides his cock back in his mouth, then nudges his hips forward. Steve’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline.

“Oh. _Oh_.”

He can’t see Sam, but he’s got to be rolling his eyes by now. Gathering his bearings, Steve softly thrusts in, keeping his pace measured, nearly sluggish. He barely cants his hips, dick prodding the shallowest portion of Sam’s wet entrance. It’s a far cry from what they were doing before.

Sam pinches his ass. His cock falls from his lips.

“ _Ow_!”

“C’mon now, I know you can you can do better than that.” It dawns on him that this is affecting Sam just as it is to him. His voice is broken, yet there’s a needy, desperate tenor to it; almost begging without asking. He drops light kisses to Steve’s tip. “Fuck my mouth like you mean it, baby. I can take it, I swear.”

Jesus shit, he’s asking Steve to _wreck_ him. He nearly comes on the spot.

Steve eases his cock past Sam’s lips with a punched-out groan. He cradles the other man’s head in his palms, fingers combing through his coarse hair and massaging his scalp. He doesn’t keep up the semantics for long, considering both he and Sam are at the end of their ropes, feigning for a release. Without further ado, he cups Sam’s jaw and starts fucking his face in earnest.

There are no more shyness and gentle touches; it’ll all fervent movements and wet slapping echoing obscenely throughout the bathroom, Steve thrusting his dick as far it could go. His hips snap up into that slick heat in a brutal pace. He brushes his thumb along Sam’s cheek, feeling the lewd press of his cock in his mouth. Sam purrs around his length. Steve’s brain short circuits.

Shit, he wishes he could see Sam right now, but the light switch is somewhere hopelessly out of reach. Steve bets he looks so good like this; on his knees, puffy lips stretched around Steve’s cock, just taking him with everything he’s got. Dark eyelashes fanned against his cheek. Face shining with spit and cum and _glitter_ — _oh God_.

“Sam, _Sam_ , _Sam_ ,” he chants like a mantra. His abs clench, his lungs constricting. His fingers tighten in Sam’s curls, fucking him with reckless abandon. “ _Sam_ , baby, please _. Please._ Let me—I’m g-gonna’ cum—I gotta’—”

He tries to be quiet—he really does—but a sob still tears through him when he comes. A litany of profanities spill from raw lips, interjected by sighs and labored pants. Sam milks him of every drop, swallowing around his softening cock. He trails a finger along the underside, collecting what little of Steve’s spunk he missed and popping it into his mouth.

He’s gonna’ die like this and it’ll be all Sam’s fault.

He stands upright and pulls Steve into a lazy kiss. He can taste himself on Sam’s tongue; another whine escapes his throat. They’re maybe two minutes into their post-orgasm make out session when somebody pounds at the door. Sam jerks away.

“Somebody’s in here!” he calls, fingers stopping its ministration against Steve’s nape. His voice is absolutely ruined. Steve swell of pride blooms in his chest, knowing _he_ did that. He bites his smarting lip to stop from smiling, not that Sam could see anyway.

“Hurry the fuck up, I’ve gotta’ take a piss dude!”

Sam mutters something under his breath before kissing Steve one last time. Instantly, Steve’s mood plummets. He craves more—he’s probably _always_ going to crave more after this—so he deepens the kiss, hoping to pour all his longing and sorrow with his lips and tongue. Sam squeezes his shoulder.

“I gotta’ get leaving before this guy beats the fucking door down. And we can’t really walk out of here together, so I’ll dip first. You hide in the shower until that guy leaves, and maybe find me somewhere around, yeah?”

Steve dumbly nods his head. It didn’t sound like that great of an idea—one of the glaring faults being when and where “somewhere around” actually _is_ —but Sam’s plan could’ve been to wait here until the FBI airlifted them out of the bathroom, and he _still_ would’ve gone along with it.

The asshole bangs again, and Steve quickly hops in the shower, curling into a corner. Once the lights flick on, he knows that Sam is gone.

**[x]**

“Where the fuck have you been, Stevie, I was looking for you!”

He’s downstairs again. This time, however, he’s just leaning against the staircase railing, a blank expression on his face. He doesn’t have the energy to be bothered by anything, not even the overly screechy techno-house blasting over the speakers. The party is waning, a good portion of the partygoers’ home by now. The few people remaining are either passed out or intoxicated on something other than weed and liquor. Steve’s lips pull down in a frown, eyebrows pinched together.

He couldn’t find Sam. He’s looked just about everywhere, but he’s disappeared like he never existed.

Bucky snaps his fingers in his face, pulling him out of his woeful stupor. “ _Stevie_! What the hell did you take—I’m not fucking driving you to the hospital again, I _told_ you to stop drinking whatever people give you!”

Steve swats Bucky’s worrisome hands off his face.

“I didn’t take _anything_ , damn it. I’m just…” words fail him not for the first time today. He grimaces. Bucky eyes him carefully, taking in his unusually tousled appearance. He squints at the plethora of glitter speckling his body, making him glow with remnants of his activities before.

“Shit, did you host pride at a Gaga concert or something?” He swipes at the cluster of sparkles on his shirt. An unreasonable flare of anger sparks in Steve’s gut. It feels… _wrong_ to get rid of it so soon. The taller man sighs at Steve’s unresponsiveness. “Look, man, the party’s dying out. Let’s go home and get some water in you, okay?”

With one last hopeless glance, he searches for Sam in the crowd, but he can no longer see the boy dancing, body covered in sweat and glitter like a fucking dream.

**[ u l t r a v i o l e t ]**

**Author's Note:**

> *milly rocks straight to hell*  
> Note: The real AU here is the one where FKA twigs put out another whisper track to bop to  
> Double Note: this is probably riddled with mistakes but this is the kind of garbage i put on when i got a writer's block so i aint really concerned


End file.
